So Many Questions
by know1knows
Summary: Preseries. Sometimes the hunt wasn't the hardest thing in John's life. Sometimes it was the drive there. Sam - 4. Dean - 9. Fluff. Just for fun.


_New Story. All disclaimers hold true._

_This has been on the back burner for a long time. Just now got around to finishing it. No reason behind this story. It's just for fun._

* * *

**SO MANY QUESTIONS**

"Daddy?"

John tensed, bracing himself for what he knew was coming next.

"Yes Sammy?" he answered cautiously, glancing in the rear-view mirror at the four-year-old strapped in the backseat.

"Why does it rain?"

Looking out through the windshield, the subtle tapping of the raindrops on the glass brought to the forefront of his mind, John silently cursed Zeus, Chac, Hiro, Mawu, Tefnut, Thor and any other ancient god of rain that might have momentarily escaped his memory.

"Because all living things need rain to survive, that's why, Sammy."

"Where does the rain come from?"

"From the clouds."

"How does it get up _in_ the clouds?"

"Well Sammy, the heat from the sun turns the water from rivers and lakes into a vapour that rises into the air and forms clouds. As the clouds continue to rise higher in the atmosphere, the water vapour cools, which turns it back to liquid form and, when the water in the cloud gets to heavy for the cloud to hold, it falls back to the earth as rain."

"Oh."

John slowly breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief; maybe – just maybe – he had averted the verbal assailment that he had feared was coming. But his relief was short-lived.

"Daddy?"

_Damn it. _

"Yes, Sam?"

"Why are clouds sometimes white and sometimes grey?"

"It depends on how much moisture the have inside them. The more moisture they're holding, the greyer the clouds look because it's blocking out more of the sun."

"What is the sun made out of?"

"It's made up of many different types of burning gases."

"Why is it yellow?"

"It's not really yellow Sammy. It just looks that way due to the way its light is scattered in the air around the earth. It's kinda like how we see the sky as being blue when it really isn't any color; it's clear."

A brief moment of silence was broken all-too-soon by a doubtful voice from the backseat.

"That's not what Dean said."

"Oh? What did Dean say?" queried John, trying to keep his tone light as he cast his oldest son in the passenger seat beside him a disapproving glare.

"He said the sky is blue because the grass and trees had already picked green and the flowers took all the other colours."

Seeing the smirk on his eldest's face, John cleared his throat – a subtle warning that he wasn't amused by the misinformation that Dean had fed his younger sibling. Of course, at the same time, John realized he really shouldn't be too upset with his oldest child because that was also the same answer he had given Dean when he'd asked the same question a about four or five years ago.

And John had caught heck for that too. From Mary. She'd berated him for telling their son outlandish lies and making him believe erroneous information. And even though he'd apologized profusely and promised never to do it again, he hadn't really seen the harm in having a little fun with Dean; after all, he'd eventually grow up and learn the truth, forgetting all the nonsensical answers his father had told him when he was too young to understand.

Or so he'd thought at the time.

Instead, the kid had stashed it away somewhere in his brain to use on his unsuspecting brother as soon as the opportunity arose. And, back then, John had had no way of knowing just how influential his oldest son was going to be on his younger brother and he couldn't help but hear Mary's voice in the back of his mind saying: _See? I told you so._

"Well, Dean was wrong to tell you that, Sammy." John said as he glanced again at his eldest son. "Weren't you, Dean?"

But before Dean had a chance to answer Sam replied adamently, "I don't think you know what you're talkin' about, Dad."

"Why not, Sammy?"

Because, whenever there's no clouds, I can see the sky and it's _definitely_ blue! That makes you wrong and Dean right."

A small snicker came from the seat beside him.

"You - stay outta this," warned John before he addressed Sam "Dean's just toyin' with you, Sammy."

"Why?"

"Because sometimes big brothers can be like that."

"Why?"

"Because they like to torment their younger brothers and tell them things that aren't true."

"Why?"

"I dunno, Sammy…Because they think it's funny, I guess."

"But Daddy…"

"What Sam?"

"Look! Over there!" delighted Sam, pointing out through the front window at a patch of freshly-opened sky. "Dean is right! The sky _is_ blue!"

John sighed.

"It only looks blue to us Sammy, because of the way the sun's light scatters the molecules in the air, picking up more of the blue in the light than any other color. But, the sky is really clear…just like a glass of water."

"How can the blue sky be like a glass of water, Daddy?" taunted Sam. "One's dry and the other's wet!"

"Well…when you look at a lake or a river it looks blue too. But it's really just reflecting the color from the sky and, if you were to scoop some of that water into a glass and look at it, you'd see that the water itself was clear."

Sam was silent for a moment, his brow twisted deep in thought, giving John a false sense of security that he had actually understood was he was trying to say.

"But you just said the sky was blue, Daddy."

"No, Sammy…what I said was the sky _looks_ blue."

"Nu-huh. You said the water looks blue 'cause it picks up the color of the sky. That means the sky is blue. Just like Dean said it was."

"No Sammy. You're not listening. What I said was…"

"Dad," interrupted Dean, frustrated, "Why are you arguing with him?"

"I'm not arguing with him, Dean," corrected John, "I'm teaching him."

"Sounds more like arguing to me," bemoaned Dean under his breath.

Casting his oldest son a disdained look, John asked, "Whaddya you say?"

"Nothin'. Just forget it."

"He said you are arguing, with me, Daddy," piped a small voice from the backseat. "And he's right. You are. You just don't want to admit that Dean's right."

Taking a deep breath to keep his temper in check, John replied steadily, "Dean's _not_ right, Sammy. And I'm _not_ arguing with you. I'm trying to teach you about the world around you because it's important that you learn the proper things."

"But Daddy…" countered Sam as he stared out the side window, a small pond just off the side of the road immediately catching his attention. "…that water over there doesn't look blue."

Noticing the pond for the first time, John eased up on the gas and pulled the Impala off to the shoulder, figuring he could use this as the perfect opportunity to illustrate to Sam the lesson he trying to teach him. He backed the car up and parked it in the small dirt turnaround that was in front of the water.

"Com'on with me Sam," he invited as he threw the car into park. "I want to show you something." Turning to Dean he asked, "You comin'?"

"No thanks," replied Dean, hunkering down deeper in his seat. "I think I'll skip the science lesson."

"Suit yourself," answered John as he got out and shut the door.

John opened the back door and helped Sam out before walking around to the back of the car and rummaging through the trunk until he found a medium-sized glass jar that would suit his purposes. After emptying the miscellaneous array of bullets from the jar into a similar one, he handed the now-empty jar to his eagerly-waiting four year-old and steered him toward the pond.

"Whad're we gonna do Daddy?" Sam queried expectantly as he skipped along beside his father to the water's edge.

"I want you to scoop some of the water into that jar, Sammy."

"Why?"

"To prove to you that things aren't always what they appear to be. I'm going to show you that the sky and the water are clear even though they don't look it to you."

Standing by the side of the pond, Sam looked sceptically at the water.

"What's wrong, Sammy?"

"The water. It's not blue like you said it was."

John sighed. "Look up Sammy. What do you see?"

"Clouds."

"And _what_ color are the clouds?"

"Grey."

"So what color will the water be?" prompted John.

"Ummmm…" said Sam, obviously thinking very hard about his father's question. "Blue?"

"No," corrected John patiently. "If the water is clear and reflects the colour you see in the sky, what color will the water be?"

"Oh, I get it," exclaimed Sam triumphantly. "Grey!"

"That's right," acknowledged John, happy his son seemed to be grasping the concept. "Now, go ahead, put some water in the jar. Then look at it and tell me what colour you see."

Sam obediently bent down and filled the jar with water. As he stood up, he carefully inspected the gritty contents, moving his little face close to the glass to get a better look.

"Is the water gray, Sam?" John finally asked.

"No."

"What color is it?"

Still looking closely at the jar, Sam said, "Brown."

"Brown?" echoed John incredulously, grabbing the jar from his son's hand and looking at it.

The water inside the jar was murky from the silt and debris of the pond so John dumped it out and retrieved a new sample, being careful to avoid scraping the jar on the bottom of the pond. He looked at it, satisfied that it was clean as it was going to be from a natural water source and handed the jar back to Sam.

"Now tell me what color is it."

Without hesitation Sam replied, "Brown."

Bending down on one knew beside his son, John lifted the jar until it was level with both his and Sam's eyesight.

"Look again, Sammy, it's not brown is it? It's clear. The brown stuff that you see is just dirt and sediment from the bottom of the lake. It's floating in the water and making it dirty."

Sam looked intensely at the jar for another minute before turning back to his father. "Nope. It's still brown."

John rolled his eyes. This was much harder than he'd originally thought it was going to be when he stopped the car. But he couldn't give up now.

"Look Sam. If I wave my hand on the other side of the jar, you can see it waving through the glass, can't you?"

"Yeah, I see it" agreed Sam, as he squinted through the container.

"Well, the reason you can see my hand is because both the glass and the water are clear. The dirt in the water just makes it harder to see through."

Sam thought for a moment, still staring intently at the jar.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"There's a fishy in here." He held the jar up for John to see. "Can I keep him?"

"No, Sammy," said John with a slight smile, "You better put it back in the pond."

"Do I hafta?"

"Yes Sammy, you have to."

"Why?"

"Because we don't have anything to feed a fish. It'll die."

"But I'll share my dinner with him," pleaded Sam.

"Sorry Sammy, but fish don't eat grilled cheese sandwiches and french fries."

"What do they eat?"

"Bugs. And water plants."

"What's a water plant?"

"Plants that grow underwater," explained John. "Now you better put him back before his family misses him."

Sam carefully tipped the water out of the jar and watched the little minnow swim away. "Bye fishy," he called before turning and running to catch up to his father.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Sam."

"If I can't have a fishy, can I have an ice cream instead?"

"Sure," smiled John.

"When? Can I have it now?"

"As soon as I find a store that sells ice cream."

John opened the back door of the car and Sam hopped in.

"Guess what?" Sam said excitedly to Dean as he climbed onto the big backseat.

"What?" asked Dean, completely disinterested.

"Dad's takin' us for ice cream!"

"He is?" Dean sounded impressed. "How'd you finagle that?"

"I traded it for the fishy."

"A fish? What fish?" queried Dean.

John slid into the driver's seat just in time to hear his youngest son's response.

"The fishy I found in the brown water."

John decided it would be best to just let it go.

They had barely been back on the road for five minutes.

"Daddy?"

John hesitated, closing his eyes briefly, before answering; afraid of what he knew was coming next. But, with nothing else to distract his four-year-old and no way to avoid his questions, John prepared himself for the coming onslaught, much as he would against any of the creatures he fought on a regular basis, patiently answering each of his son's question to the best of his ability, hoping only to survive through the latest round that came like rapid-fire:

_How do fish stay under water? How do they learn to swim? Why can't I breathe under water? Why don't I have gills? Do other animals have gills? Why do ducks have webbed feet? Can all animals swim? Can I swim? Does Dean know how to swim? Can we stop for ice cream now? Why is ice cream so cold? Is ice cream really made of ice? Do polar bears like ice cream? What do polar bears eat? Where do polar bears live? Why are polar bears white? Why can't penguins fly? Why do seals clap their hands? Do seals really like to play with balls? Can we go to a zoo? When are we getting ice cream? How far away is the ocean? What's the difference between a lake and an ocean? How deep is the ocean? How many fish live in the ocean? What does it look like under the ocean? Are there roads in the ocean so fish don't bump into each other? Do fish really go to school? When do I get to go to school? Can Dean come with me to school? Will we be in the same class? Why? How come Dean is older than me? Who decided Dean should be born first? Why is Dean making faces out the window? Daddy, did you forget about the ice cream? Why did it stop raining? Why are the clouds still grey? Is the sun going to come out now? What time is it? Is it the same time everywhere? What's a time zone? Who made up the time zones? Why do we need time zones? Where does the sun go at night? How does it know where to get up in the morning…_

By the time Sam got around to asking why they hadn't stopped for ice cream for the fourth time, John's headache, having already spread around the entire outer portion of his head, was now beginning to penetrate his brain, making him afraid that it would become completely ingrained in his head for the rest of the day unless he put a stop to his son's incessant questioning.

So he turned off at the next side-road, intent on finding the nearest store that sold ice cream; knowing it would give him respite from Sammy's inquisition for at least as long as it took his youngest son to eat the ice cream. But, as was to be expected, the change in direction started another volley between the front and back seats.

_Why did we turn here? Where does this road go? Does the other road go this way too? Where does it go? What's the difference between a road and a highway? How fast are we going? Can we go faster? What happens if we go too fast? Why is the car jumping so much? Who put the bumps in the road? What's under the road? How do they make roads? What makes the road so flat? Why do roads have turns? Does every road go somewhere? What's the difference between a town and a city? Do all towns have stores? Do all stores sell ice cream? What if the store we stop at doesn't have ice cream?_

John's head felt like it was going to explode.

Finally, a gas station appeared on the horizon. Doubting that there were any pagan gods in charge of ice cream, John prayed silently to God, Allah, Buddha and any other modern-day god who might be listening that the damn store had ice cream, or at least some version of frozen treats that would satisfy his four-year-old. Pulling into the parking lot, John drove right past the gas pumps even though the Impala was in desperate need of gas, his need to purchase ice cream took precedent and he parked right outside the doors of the ramshackle building. He had barely put the car into park when Sammy, temporarily lulled into silence by the prospect of finally getting his long-awaited delicacy, asked his next question.

"What if they don't sell any ice cream I like here?"

Dean's exasperated groan said it all.

John thought he got off easy having only to explain the merits of each of the ten available flavors of ice cream while holding Sam up to see into the refrigerated ice cream counter and waiting patiently while he taste-tested five of his choices to the delight of the teenage girl behind the counter before finally settling on Bubblegum. After paying for the ice cream John ushered the boys outside toward a dilapidated picnic table near the back of the lot, himself having skipped the ice cream, opting instead for a coke and the biggest bottle of Tylenol he could find.

Ignoring the warning on the label to never take more than two at a time, advice that John figured wasn't meant for anyone who had just spent the last five and a half hours - save a quick stop for lunch and a couple of pee-breaks - in the same car as a talkative four year-old, he swallowed four of the little red painkillers and settled down on the bench to enjoy the peace and quiet that his sons' consumption of ice cream cone afforded him, silently praying that the drugs would have enough time to take effect before the ice cream was gone. And when Dean nudged him to request some Tylenol for himself, John initially tried to wave him off with the explanation that they were meant only for adults, but finally relented and gave him one capsule with the reasoning that he'd been in the same car for the exact same length of time.

As soon as Sammy was done his cone, Dean having finished his a long time ago, John sent the two of them to the washroom to clean up as he filled the Impala with gas. He was sitting in the car, savouring the rare silence inside, waiting for them when they finally emerged, Sam's mouth once again in gear and going a mile a minute.

Dean looked less than amused.

John took a deep breath and got out, letting Sammy into the backseat.

Dean immediately shot him an displeased look.

"Can I ride in the trunk?"

John realized Dean was only half-joking.

"That's illegal, Dean," John responded, "And there's too many things in the trunk that could hurt you."

"Yeah? Well, that's a chance I'm willing to take if it means I don't have to listen to Sammy for a while," lamented Dean. "And bleeding quietly to death in the trunk might be less painful too."

John just shook his head, emphasizing with his first-born. "Why don't you sit in the back with him and try reading him a story…"

If looks could kill, the look Dean shot him was poison.

Nonetheless, Dean sat in the backseat with his brother, not because he really wanted to but because he hoped that having some company might stop his never-ending chatter. And after trying to get Sam interested in playing with some of his toys without success, Dean reluctantly pulled a book out of his brother's backpack and, to Sam's delight, began reading to him.

But, after reading _Green Eggs and Ham_ for the fifth time, Dean had had all the Dr. Seuss he could take too and threw the book down on the seat beside him.

"One more time!" requested Sam exuberantly.

"No Sammy."

"Pleeease."

"No."

"Pleeease Dean…"

It was only when Sam began to cry that Dean finally relented. Luckily for him, or so he thought at the time, a passing freight train caught Sam's attention halfway through.

"Where's that train going?"

"To a train station," replied Dean caustically, knowing where this was undoubtedly headed.

"Where'd it come from?"

"Another train station."

"Are there people on it?"

"No, it's a freight train?"

"Then who's driving it?"

"The engineer."

"But isn't he a person?"

"Probably. But you never know."

"Why do they call him called an engineer?"

When Dean answered that _because_ _calling him a moron wouldn't be very nice_ John finally interfered.

"He's called an engineer because he drives the engine that allows the train to move along the track."

"Why do trains drive on tracks?" asked an inquisitive Sam.

Dean's murmured rejoinder of _because they can't fly_ was drowned out by John response.

"Because trains don't have rubber tires on their wheels like cars do."

"Why?"

"Because rubber isn't durable enough to support the heavy weight of the train," explained John.

But Dean's whimsical retort had caught Sam's attention, turning his line of questioning in a different direction.

_How do birds fly? Why can't people fly? Could people fly if they had feathers? How do airplanes fly? Can other animals fly? Are bats birds? What's a mammal? Are people mammals? How many kinds of mammals are there? Are frogs mammals? What's an am-phi-bi-an? What does being cold-blooded mean? Are snakes am-ph-ibi-ans? How do snakes move if they don't have legs? Are all snakes poisonous? Are spiders poisonous? Why do spiders make webs? What are spiderwebs made out of? Are trees alive? _

And so it went for the next hour or so with Sam throwing out question after question and John answering as best he could without too many _I-don't-knows_ or losing his temper while Dean tried to pretend he was anywhere else but in the car with the two of them. Finally Sam grew tired and fell asleep.

Dean climbed back into the front seat and, along with his father, the two of them relishing the peace and quiet of the next forty minutes, with the only sound coming from the car's engine and grinding of the tires on the pavement Neither one of them even wanted to turn on the radio.

John had been toying with the idea of stopping for supper when Sam finally awoke. And when he launched into his newest tirade of questioning John earnestly started to look for a place where they could spend the night as well as have dinner.

He soon spotted a motel with a diner and he turned in, stopping the car in front of the office and ushered his sons, cramped from spending the day in the car, out to play at the playground in the yard. After registering and paying for a night's lodging, John went to the diner, bought dinner and, with containers of food in hand, walked over to the park and called his sons.

They sat eagerly at the picnic table to eat, all of them hungry, and after wolfing down their food, the boys returned to the swingset to play while John went to their motel room to unpack and do some much-needed research. The boys showed up, as they had been taught, just as the sun was beginning to set and John put away his books to get Sam ready for a bath.

"Why do I have to take a bath?" Sam whined.

"Because you're dirty from playing at the park?"

"Does Dean have to take a bath too?"

"Yes, after you're finished."

"Why can't he go first?"

"Because he gets to stay up later than you."

"Why?"

"Because he's older."

"When do I get to be older?"

"You get older every day Sammy. But you'll never be older than Dean."

"Are you older than Dean?"

"Yes, Sammy, I'm a lot older than Dean."

John took his son's hand and helped him into the bathtub. He soaped a washcloth and began washing his four year-old as he fielded another barrage of questions ranging from: _how does soap make bubbles _and _why do you use shampoo to wash my hair_ to _where does the water go when you pull the plug._ By the time John had Sam washed, dried, dressed, his teeth brushed and ready for bed, Sam was stifling back a series of yawns.

At John's insistence Sam ran back into the main room, gave Dean a big hug and climbed into his side of the double bed that he and Dean would share that night. While Dean got ready for bed, John tucked Sam in, read him a short story and let him watch the television until he finally fell asleep. And when Dean climbed into bed beside him to watch TV, John looked up from his research.

Watching his two sons, both of them content and quiet at last, it was hard not to reflect on the events of the day and how they both had, in their own subtle way, almost driven him crazy.

And, tomorrow, they were going to get up and do it all over again.

_The end._


End file.
